


Raindrops on the Rug

by srididdledeedee



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, feat pauling being the best and scout being only a little useless, heavy/medic and sniper/spy are implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srididdledeedee/pseuds/srididdledeedee
Summary: Pauling is good at finding people, and Scout wants someone to be found.





	Raindrops on the Rug

Pauling was a busy woman.  How couldn't she be – her work was her highest priority and her greatest joy.  She was secluded in her office at any moment of the day, pouring over files of various clients.  Oh, she had solved their mysteries long ago, but there was always one layer deeper to go.  It was electrifying.

The day _he_ came in was as blasé as it could get.  Her radio faded in and out, close enough to the tower, yet not close enough.  It was late and raining and cliché.  There was a crash of thunder, and her lamp flickered.   _Might have to just sleep in the office tonight,_ she thought to herself.  It wouldn't be the first time.

She pushed up her glasses to glance at the clock, and there he was: dripping wet, clothes sticking to him, looking more like a drowned rat than a young man.  She sat up a little straighter.  

“Who the hell –”

“No one told me you’d look like this,” he said immediately, cutting her off.  She repressed a tired sigh. One of those types, then.

“I figured you'd be older, at least older than me – I mean, it takes time to build a reputation, right?  I thought you'd be some chain-smoking lady born last century,” he babbled, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, shivering.  

“Who are you,” she said firmly.  The boy made to answer, but it was her turn to interrupt because it was her office, her _safety,_ goddamnit, and he looked like he was trying to transfer all the water in the world to her imported rug. “At least _try_ to stop dripping on my floor.  What were you doing out in weather like this without a coat or umbrella?”

The boy hesitated, making Pauling raise an eyebrow.  “Can I sit down, ma’am?”

“If you've got money.”

He dug something out of his pocket – an envelope that looked just as drenched as he was.  Pauling carefully took it and opened it.  It might have been wet, but money was money.  Pauling gestured to the seat on the other side of her desk, and the boy took the invitation.”

“I’m….I’m looking for my father.”

* * *

The boy – Jeremy “just call me Scout” Miller – and his case were not, on the surface, the toughest case Pauling had ever worked.  Scout insisted his father was alive, even had a memento that he claimed his father had left his mother.  Pauling was fairly confident she could follow the trail to Scout’s missing parent.

But the memento, an engraved silver clasp, was not easy to pinpoint.  The clasp itself was generic, so Pauling was left to examining the unique engravings.  She couldn't make heads or tails of them.  It was a tightly locked secret and she couldn't break it open.

She abandoned researching the clasp in favor of following other leads on Scout’s mother, on men Scout thought might be his father, on anything.  Scout was over twice, thrice, four times a week.  It still rained more often that it didn't, and he continued to drip on everything she owned.  She found herself caring less as the weeks passed on.  Finally, she requested he bring his mother’s memento back.  
  
“Can I help?” Scout asked earnestly as she peered at the clasp under the most powerful magnifying glass she’d ever owned, bought specifically to examine Scout’s trinket.

“Do you have anything beside this clasp?” She asked.  She’d asked a hundred times before and she already knew what the answer was: Scout’s eyes guiltily shifting before he stammered out a “no, that’s it.”  She breathed heavily.  She switched tactics, as she always ended up doing with Scout.

“Why are you looking for your father?” She casually asked.

“Why wouldn't I?” Scout countered.  “I'm the youngest of eight, but at least my seven older brothers know where they came from.”

“How was it you found out you and they have different fathers?” Pauling prodded.  She had noticed something on the clasp, a tiny signature, almost impossible to read.

“My Ma never thought to _not_ tell me,” Scout rambled.  “Ever since I was a baby I knew.  Ma was real taken with him, too.  Foreign guy.”

“Foreign?”  That narrowed things down considerably.  Pauling wondered why Scout hadn't mentioned it before.

“Yeah.  Well...maybe,” Scout confessed.  “This might sound crazy, but sometimes I think I remember his voice.  Definitely had an accent, European.”

Pauling grimaced; childhood memories were flighty, malleable, and often wild goose chases.  But the memory barely mattered anymore, because she had found a lead.

“Scout,” she said.  “Pack up your things.  We’re taking a trip down south to Conagher’s.” 

* * *

 

Dell Conagher was a kind-looking man, but Pauling knew better than anyone that looks were deceiving.  Her pistol remained strapped to her leg, and she cautioned Scout to remain behind her at all times.  As it turned out, they shouldn't have worried.  Dell liked his privacy, but he respected honesty equally so.  Scout blurted out his entire situation to Dell, and it worked in their favor.

“I can’t help you much, Miss,” he said.  “I know some fellas he used to work with – they'd all come here together.  One lives pretty close, I sometimes still go over for drinks.”

Pauling jotted down the address and thanked Dell.

“Don't go singing my praises yet,” he warned.  “The man is my friend, but he don’t take too kindly to surprise visits from strangers.”

Scout began to babble questions, and Dell looked straight into Pauling’s eyes.  “Don't let the boy get hurt.”

Dell knew more.  Pauling knew that Dell knew more, and it killed her that he wasn't telling her more.  But she politely shook his hand, thanked him again, and dragged Scout back to the car.

“Find these directions on a map and tell me where to go,” she commanded, giving Scout the address she had received and starting the car.  He looked at her blankly, and it was then Pauling learned the 27-year-old man was illiterate.

She turned off the car and looked at the map herself, and drew a line from their current position to their destination.  Pauling tossed the map back onto Scout’s lap and started the car once more.

It still wasn't perfect – Scout’s directions were given by number of streets until her next turn, leading to some mix-ups and turn-arounds, but the pair made it to the private home just before sunset.

“How close to the end do you think we are, Miss Pauling?” Scout asked eagerly.

“I’m honestly not sure,” Pauling answered.  “Look, you wait here.  I’ll go inside to talk.”

“Wait, but shouldn't I–?”

“Stay.  Here.” Pauling ordered.  Scout meekly nodded.

_Don't let the boy get hurt._

Pauling cautiously approached the front door, and rapped on it thrice.  “Mr. Ludwig?”

No answer.

Pauling knocked again.  She swore she could see some movement from inside.  “Mr. Ludwig?  I’m here to ask you a few questions.”  She tried the door handle.  It was unlocked and easily swung open, which was never a good sign.  Pauling unstrapped her pistol.  She refused to die in a house in the middle of nowhere in the middle of an investigation.

“Mr. Ludwig, I don’t want to hurt you.  I’m coming in,” she said carefully.  She stepped over the threshold and fumbled for a light switch with her left hand, not daring to enter an unfamiliar terrain without a light source.

The light clicked.  No one was there.  Pauling felt immense relief, immediately followed by immense regret as she was stabbed in the neck with a needle.

* * *

She came to to the sound of hushed voices.  The first thing she noticed was her hands were bound behind her, and that Scout seemed to be in a similar situation across from her.  The voices continued, and she strained to hear them.  It took her a moment to realize that the problem wasn't that she couldn't _hear_ the words, it was that she couldn't _understand_ them.  

“ _Ikh nokh trakhtn mir zol teytn zey_.”

“ _Mir kenen nisht. Er iz der zun fun shpyon._ ”

“ _Ober di froy –”_

_"Iz geven mit im. Baruig zikh. Ikh ton nit trakhtn zey zenen do tsu shatn aundz.”_

The voices abruptly stopped.  Pauling struggled to hear more, but found she couldn't.  Scout was also beginning to come around.

“Miss...Miss Pauling….what happened?” He slurred.  “Last thing I remember this absolute bear of a man hit me on the head.”  He looked around.  “Where are we?”  He glanced at his sorry state.  “Why are we – Miss Pauling, are we gonna die?”

“Stop panicking, Scout,” she said, trying to calm him down.  “I don't think – no.  I won't let that happen.  I promise we’re not going to die.”

“That's a rather foolish promise to make!”

Pauling’s head jerked to the side, trying to locate the heavily accented voice.  Her eyes landed on a tall, beaming man, and she narrowed her eyes.  “Scout, is this the man you hit you?”

Scout began to shake his head, and the man laughed.  “No, no, no, that was not me.  Mikhail did give you quite a big lump, I see.  He is here too!  Misha, come out where they can see you!”

The largest man Pauling had ever seen stepped out of the shadows, and her eyes almost bugged out of her head.   _How did I miss that?_ she thought to herself in a daze.

“Don’t like intruders here,” Mikhail rumbled.  “No one knows this place.”  He stepped closer to Pauling. “So how do you?”

Miss Pauling looked up at him, ignoring Scout’s terrified stream of consciousness (“Miss Pauling we’re gonna die we’re gonna get killed by a homicidal German and Russian oh my god it’s just like the Great War Miss Pauling oh my god–”) and said, “We were sent here by Dell Conagher.  I’m looking for his father.”  She jerked her head at Scout.  “Which one of you is Mr. Ludwig?”

The two men looked at each other, seeming to fight a battle of wills.  Pauling wasn't sure who was winning.  She wasn't sure who she wanted to win.

Finally, the original man threw up his hands.  “Fine!  I am _Dr._ Ludwig.”  He shot a nasty look at his partner, as if daring him to contradict the claim.  “Dell sent you?”

“Yes!” Pauling felt relief wash over her body once more, though she didn't drop her guard.  She had been taught her lesson that day.  Ludwig didn't look too impressed, but Mikhail had bent down and undid Pauling's restraints.  When finished, he moved on to the still blathering Scout.  Pauling stood up and rubbed at her wrists.  “This is Scout – Jeremy, I mean.”

Scout looked at Ludwig.  “Oh my god, my father is a kraut,” he whispered.  

Ludwig burst out laughing.  “Ah, me?  Your father?  Silly boy, you would have been killed as an infant if I had been –”

Mikhail rested his giant hand on Ludwig’s shoulder, and it was like the switch of a lamp.  “Doktor.  You keep talking on and on like little Scout, he will believe you are his father.”  Heavy looked at Pauling.  “Doktor not little Scout’s father.  But we know where to find him.”

* * *

Mikhail gave simple directions.  Go back to the city, find Tavish Degroot’s apartment at this address.  He will be there.  Have him take you to Jane Doe’s bar.  It won't be a difficult task, but it is needed.  Go to the back, to the stairs, and go up to the top.  

“Wait, so top floor?” Pauling asked to confirm.  Mikhail shook his head

“No.  All the way up to roof.  There will be a man with a gun there.”  Mikhail smiled, as if remembering a fond memory.  “Do not fear his gun.  Ask him to bring you to little Scout’s father.”

Pauling nodded.  “Thank you,” she said.  Her heart was racing.  They were so close.  It had been forever since she last had a case that had such a difficult trail, and she'd forgotten the thrill of chasing it to the end.

“It was no trouble!” Ludwig said.  “When you find your fathers–” Mikhail tapped him, and Ludwig coughed.  “Sorry, _father_ , tell him to visit!  He hasn't stopped by in months!”

Scout beamed, waving goodbye.  Pauling doubted he had truly processed what had been said to him.  Well.  No harm, no foul.

* * *

“You excited?” She asked Scout as the city skyline appeared on the horizon.  They'd been driving for an hour or so, and he had just woken back up from a nap.

“I, uh….” he trailed off.  “Yes?  Excited, yeah, but also…..”  He swallowed hard.  “I feel like I’m gonna shit myself.”

Pauling snorted.  She took one hand off the wheel and fumbled for Scout’s.  He helped her, taking her hand, and she squeezed.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said.  “You're going to have a perfect family reunion.  It's going to be _fine.”_

_And if it isn't, there will be hell to pay._

* * *

Pauling better understood Mikhail’s instructions once they reached Doe’s bar.  Tavish was amicable, but his real help was in calming down the owner.  Jane turned out to be a hot-blooded military man, barking orders like mad.  As Tavish conversed with him, Pauling took Scout by the hand and led him to the back.

One flight.  Two flights.  Up and up they went, until finally they'd reached the roof.  Pauling took a deep breath, and opened the door.

_A_ man was not on the roof.  Who was on the roof was two men.  Sitting side by side, one with a gun, the other in a suit, easily talking with each other.  The sound of the door made the suited one turn, and Pauling could see his eyes widen in recognition.

Scout looked like a dead fish.  He felt like a dead fish too, at least in the hand.  Pauling gave him a look and motioned with her head.  

“Dad?” Scout said smally instead of moving.  That got the other man’s attention, and now the gunman was also staring, mouth agape.

The suited man – Scout’s father – took a step back, and Pauling’s heart plummeted.

“Now hold on _just a damn minute,_ ” she said, stepping forward.  “I did not spend weeks researching and traveling and having your son drip all over my floors for you to _run away._ ”

The man froze.  His friend, the gunman, put his hand in his arm as if to steady him.

Scout took a shaky step forward and pulled out the clasp – no, it wasn't the clasp, it was a pen that Pauling had never seen before.  “You gave this to me,” Scout croaked.  “I mean – you gave it to Ma to give to me.  Which she did.  Which is why I have it –”  He broke off, took a deep breath, and started over.  “‘My dearest Jeremy: I may not always be around to help you, but you can always scout ahead for others.’”  He swallowed.  “I have that memorized.  Ma’d read it for me.  I was her scout.  Looking for you.”

Pauling felt her heart thump in her chest.  Scout’s father was still deadly still.  The gunman was whispering something to him.

Scout looked broken.  Pauling stepped forward, almost shielding him with her body.

“Say something!” Pauling screamed across the roof.  Her voice echoed, bouncing off other buildings before fading away.

The man who shouldn't have been allowed to call himself Scout’s father took a step closer to Scout and Pauling.

And another.

And another.

Until he had arrived in front of Scout.  

“I am sorry,” he said thickly, his words almost unrecognizable between his accent and the emotion in his voice.

Scout threw his arms around his father.

* * *

Pauling was a busy woman.  Scout wasn't a busy man.

They made it work anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I told @east_wind it was a travesty that there aren't more detective noir tf2 fics in the world and then I remembered that I do, in fact, know how to write
> 
> you better believe i headcanon medic and heavy as jewish. check that yiddish OUT
> 
> don't forget to comment!


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